


Warm Places

by Isagel



Category: Spy Game (2001)
Genre: Action/Adventure, M/M, Post-Canon, Reunions, Spies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2009-12-19
Updated: 2009-12-19
Packaged: 2017-10-04 22:24:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,566
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/34739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Isagel/pseuds/Isagel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not the Bahamas, but it is someplace warm.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Warm Places

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dorinda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dorinda/gifts).



_1993  
Somewhere in the Persian Gulf_

 

It's not the Bahamas, but at least it is someplace warm. Or hot, even, he corrects himself, as one of Mitchell's thugs presses him up against the side of the building, the adobe wall soaked in enough desert sun for it to burn his cheek as his face rubs against it.

"Hey, no need to be over-zealous," he says. But he spreads his legs and raises his arms, palms flat against the wall, without any real resistance, allowing the man to pat him down. "I'm honoring our agreement, here."

"I'd apologize for the treatment," Mitchell says from somewhere behind him, "but you can't be too paranoid in this business, can you?"

"Boss," his henchman says, pulling out the Glock that was tucked in the back of Nathan's slacks, presumably holding it up for Mitchell to see.

"Expecting trouble?" Mitchell asks, voice cold.

"Like you said," Nathan says, shrugging. "Can't be too paranoid." His muscles tense beneath his relaxed posture, anticipating a fight, but he's calculated the risks, and this is a small one. Mitchell was expecting _something_, and the gun is unlikely to upset him. Not to mention that finding it will keep him from looking too hard for other things.

"Apparently you can't," a voice says behind him, and that's not Mitchell, or any of his gang. It's a voice Nathan _knows_, a voice that shouldn't be here. "You doing deals without me, now, Nick? Didn't you tell these nice men you have a partner?"

There's the shuffling noise of booted feet on sand as Mitchell and his men whirl around to face the speaker. The grip on Nathan's shoulder loosens as the man holding him shifts his focus to the newcomer, and he could shake it off and turn around, but for a second he just closes his eyes and breathes against the sudden racing of his pulse, glad for the heated wall that's holding him up. Because there's no mistaking that voice, no matter that it's been years since he heard it.

"Nick?" Mitchell says. Confused, demanding an explanation, and Nathan feels a sharp, crazy whirl of adrenaline and excitement at that; the old, familiar rush of having to think on his feet, the deeper thrill of getting to play this game _with_ someone. He's been enjoying returning to field work, but this, this is another level entirely.

He turns, takes a step forward to leave Mitchell's muscle behind. He registers out of the corner of his eye that the man puts away the gun he just found in the pocket of his army green jacket, but it's not a conscious observation. All his attention is on the mouth of the narrow cul-de-sac they're in, where Tom Bishop stands, framed by the clear blue of the slither of ocean visible between the buildings behind him.

"Toby," he says, and he makes it come out nervous and cagey, for Mitchell's benefit. "I didn't know you were back in town."

"Thought I'd surprise you," Tom says. "I went to the office, but you weren't there. So I figured I'd better see what you were up to." _The office_. He's been to Tel Aviv, then, to the offices of Muir Consulting, where Nathan hasn't set foot for a week, busy establishing his identity as Nick Miller, finding a way in with Mitchell's crew. "Can't let you get into trouble all on your own, now, can I?" Tom adds, and there's a suggestiveness in his tone that will read as an implied threat to the people listening, but which makes Nathan's breath catch for entirely different reasons. There's a spark at the bottom of Tom's eyes that he recognizes only too well, and, Christ, Tom is having fun with this, too. And Nathan doesn't like to think about it, but he's missed that - that crazy, wild delight in the performance of a role that made Tom shine, made him special.

He has an impulse to step across the space between them and touch, but instead he says:

"The only trouble I'm having is you ruining this deal. I've finally reached an understanding with Mr. Mitchell here to let me see his merchandize, and then you trample in and wreck the whole arrangement. We could have made a fortune on this affair when we sold the hardware on to South America, you know." He turns to Mitchell, puts on an apologetic face. "Look, I'm sorry my partner here is letting his inability to trust me get in the way of things. I completely understand if you want to call this off. Just…" He looks from Mitchell to his three henchmen, making sure Mitchell sees him take in the weapons they're carrying, sees him worry about them. "Just forget this ever happened and we'll both be out of here, no harm done, okay?"

Mitchell looks from him to Tom and back again, and Nathan can see the calculations flicker across his rough features, the possibility that Tom might pose a threat weighed against the cash payment Nathan has promised him once he's seen the goods he's selling with his own eyes.

It's not really a contest.

"Henry," Mitchell tells the heavy-set man who held Nathan up against the wall. "Check him over."

"Yes, boss," Henry says, and shoulders past Nathan, moving towards Tom. "Raise your arms," he tells Bishop.

Tom does as he's told, but shoots Nathan a wicked glance as Henry begins to frisk him.

"I didn't know your new friends were so touchy-feely, Nick," he says. "I didn't think that was your style."

Nathan watches Henry's meaty hands slide impersonal over Tom's wiry body, and thinks about all the times over the years that have passed since Beirut that he's wished he'd touched Tom more when he had the chance, that he'd thought to memorize the edge of his collarbone under his fingertips, the curve of his neck in the cup of his palm, the soft stretch of skin at the small of his back beneath his lips. All the times he's regretted ever taking anything for granted.

"What can I say?" he says, flippant. "People change."

Tom's eyes holding his over Henry's head as he pats down his legs are serious and almost painfully sharp. Nathan isn't sure what he's seeing, but he lets him look.

"He's clean," Henry says, straightening.

"All right, then," Mitchell says. "Looks like you're both coming on a little road trip."

"Guess you're stuck with me, then, Nick," Tom says.

Nathan pulls his sunglasses out of his pocket, shielding himself against the over-brightness of the sunlight that's making him blink.

"Let's go."

 

*****

 

The back of the truck is dark after the midday glare outside, but the enclosed space beneath the tarp is thick with a different kind of heat, stifling and lingering on the skin in a sticky film of sweat. They sit still and silent on the benches that run along the sides, Nathan and Tom facing each other, Henry and another of Mitchell's men next to them. Mitchell and the last of his crew ride up front in the driver's cabin.

Tom is so close that their knees are almost bumping as the truck sways on the uneven road. He looks the same as he used to, beautiful and somehow petulant, like the world isn't living up to his expectations; or maybe it's amused, like the world is an on-going joke he's been let in on. Always one of the two. It used to be, Nathan was the one sharing the punch lines with him. If there's any possibility he could have that again...

But there's nothing to read in Tom's face now, his eyes a clear, impassive blue in the dimness. A well-constructed facade to keep up their cover. For a second, Nathan almost wishes he hadn't trained the kid so well. Which is a thought so absurd he has to laugh to himself, the quick, low sound loud in the quiet of the truck.

Henry shoots him a suspicious look.

"Something funny?"

Nathan waves his hand in a dismissive gesture.

"Just having an argument with my own vanity."

Henry looks confused, but Tom smiles, sharp and immediate.

"Mind if I bet against you?"

Nathan tilts his head to catch Tom's eye, gives him his brightest smile. He's pretty sure there's pride in it, as well as self-deprecation.

"On this particular question, it's a safe bet."

Tom shakes his head at him, lower lip caught between his teeth. He looks so young that Nathan could almost believe they're back at the beginning, that nothing has ever come between them.

Then his gaze hitches on the new scar at Tom's temple, a jagged line of white along the edge of his eye, where the skin would break from too many vicious blows.

The beginning is a long way behind them.

 

*****

 

By his internal clock, they've been on the road for perhaps fourty-five minutes when the truck slows down and stops. There is the metal rattle of garage doors closing behind them, and he isn't surprised when they jump down into the large space of a warehouse. The room, though, is empty apart from the few vehicles parked next to the one they came in.

Nathan raises an eyebrow at Mitchell as he steps out from the passenger side door.

"I'm still not seeing anything I want to buy."

Mitchell rolls his eyes, and jerks his head towards a door not far from where they're standing.

"Come on."

The door is for an elevator. It could easily take all of them, but only Mitchell and Henry get in with him and Tom. And this is strictly meant to be recon, but he does like the odds better like this.

"I hope you have a panorama view up here," Tom says, to no one in particular. "Cause I have to say, the scenic route was kind of a disappointment."

The muscles in Mitchell's jaw twitch, and he stabs harder than necessary at the _up_ button.

Nathan doesn't bother to hide his smile.

 

*****

 

There is no view, of course, but there is what Mitchell's promised him. Crates stacked on crates next to crates of grenade launchers, with US Army labels on the sides.

Nathan whistles under his breath, strolls away down the aisles of boxes, making the others trail after him.

"You stole all this from under the noses of your COs before you got kicked out of the service? I knew there was a lot of materiel went missing during Desert Storm, but I have to say, I'm impressed."

Boxes, boxes, and, yes, there's a couple of doors at the other end of the floor, probably leading to other rooms. If what he's looking for is here, those are most likely his best bet.

He stops near the doors, and turns.

"So your satisfied?" Mitchell says. "We have a deal for the whole lot?"

"Oh, absolutely," Nathan says. "My contacts in Columbia will pay top dollar for this. But they're going to want to know that your organization is up to handling something of this magnitude. I mean, you're still new in the game, and, don't get me wrong here, but the last thing they need is an amateur messing up and bringing the heat down on their affairs. Look..." He takes a step closer to Mitchell, lowering his voice just a fraction, making the conversation personal, man to man between the two of them. "I hate to have to ask, but are you sure there are no leaks? You're sure no one suspects what you're doing here?"

Mitchell takes a moment to answer, seeming to consider. Then he appears to make a decision, and steps over to the door a few feet behind him.

"You want to know there are no leaks? Let me show you."

He pulls a set of keys out of his pocket, and unlocks the door, shoves it wide open. Nathan gives him a dubious look, but steps up to the doorway and looks inside. The small room is empty, except for a wooden chair in the center of the floor. There is a young man sitting on the chair, bound with duct tape to its arms and legs, kept silent with a strip of duct tape over his mouth. The gag partially obscures his face, but there's no doubt he's a match for the photos of David Colsworth that Nathan's client sent over.

"Fucking journalist," Mitchell explains. "Used to hang around our unit during the war. Thought he was onto something, putting his nose in my business afterwards. Figured he was going to do an exposé on the illegal arms trade or something like that. Well, that's not going to happen, now, is it, Dave?" That last is directed at Colsworth, whose eyes widen, green and panicked. There is dried blood on his shirt, matted in his hair. It's a good thing the plan is to get him out of here soon. "We're keeping him alive until the weapons have been shipped from here, in case the body could be linked to us. But when we're gone from this godforsaken place, so is old Dave. Believe me, after the treatment he's been getting, none of my men are going to dare step out of line. Nothing like a good old-fashioned deterrent, right?" Mitchell concludes, self-satisfied, and pulls the door closed.

"Can't beat it with a stick," Tom agrees. He's leaning up against the door jamb, arms crossed lazily across his chest. Nathan wonders how much he's learned about what the mission is, how much he's playing this by ear. He never met anyone with a more natural aptitude for improvisation.

He nods, thoughtfully, acting convinced.

"I've seen what I needed to see here. Give me a few days to make the shipping arrangements, and we can set up the transaction."

He starts walking back through the maze of weapons crates, Mitchell and the others again following as he goes.

"Cash on delivery, as agreed?" Mitchell asks.

There's a crack between the floorboards not far from the elevators, as good a spot as he's likely to find.

"Of course," he says, and then, "Oh, hang on a minute." He kneels down, as if he's just noticed his shoelace has come undone, and makes as if to tie it. He slips the tiny transmitter out of the shaft of his boot, and wedges it into the crack in the floor. With it, he'll have no trouble finding this place again, going in with enough men to bust Colsworth safely out of here, and get him back to his paper that's footing the bill.

He's just about to stand back up when the elevator door swings open, one of Mitchell's men from back in the alley rushing out of it.

"Boss," he says, quick and agitated. "Amin just called. He says the police are doing a sweep of the harbor. He has no clue what they're looking for or if they have any idea about us, but they'll be here in less than an hour at the rate they're going."

Oh, for… Of course the op would go sideways because these guys are fucking useless criminals.

"Okay," Mitchell says. "Okay, we need to get everything we can on the trucks and get out of here. Henry…" Henry takes a step forward, just past Nathan, eager to hear his orders. "…I want you to go back and deal with Colsworth, you understand?"

Nathan reaches up, reaches for Henry's pocket, and he still has this, necessary tradecraft, and it's easy, so easy to slip his own confiscated gun out of that pocket in the same movement as he stands up, and it wouldn't be an option if he were alone, but he's not, and he's pulled the trigger, put a bullet in Henry's knee and made him buckle screaming to the floor before anyone has time to react. He brings his gun up to point at Mitchell's head and Tom is already moving, ducking swift and precise beneath his arm to get to Henry, pull Henry's own gun from its shoulder holster before he's recovered from the first shock of pain.

There's a third hostile, though, and the bullets start coming their way just as Mitchell shouts, "Nick, what the hell are you doing?" and they have to move or go down. Tom throws himself into a roll from where he's crouched over Henry's body, making for the cover of the nearest row of crates. Nathan leaps after him, letting him return fire from around the corner of the crate as he gets behind it.

There's a definite yelp of pain as someone is hit, but when he leans out above Tom's crouching frame to get a view of the situation, Mitchell and the other guy have both made it into the elevator, leaving Henry behind, and the shooting has stopped.

Tom tilts his head back and looks up at him.

"If that was part of your plan, you really should have retired."

He's very close, and Nathan's heart is racing far too fast. He puts out a hand to steady himself against the side of the crate.

"If you can't make a kill-shot at that range, you should give back your merit badges. New plan. We're grabbing Colsworth and getting out of here."

Tom grins up at him.

"Sounds good to me."

They're back at the locked door, leaning up half-crouching against the wall on either side of it, ready to bust it open, when Tom pauses, as if they have all the time in the world, and says:

"What I don't get is how you got a woman like Gladys to give up a good job and come work for you."

Nathan breathes out a huff of laughter, disbelieving.

"You know a woman like Gladys working for a guy like Andy Unger would have been a crime. But you still don't know to do your research properly. You think I had the funds left after saving your hide to start up a business on my own? Gladys owns half my ass."

Tom bites his lip, the version of the gesture that is a distillation of a thousand dirty thoughts.

"What about the other half?"

It can't, it shouldn't be this easy.

"You going to knock down the door any time soon?" Nathan says.

Tom straightens, and levels a kick at it with all of his weight behind it. The door slams open, bouncing loud against the wall.

There's no sound of the elevator returning behind them yet, but it's only a matter of time.

Colsworth stares at them, making agitated attempts at speech behind his gag.

"It's all right, Mr. Colsworth," Tom says, tucking his gun in the waistband of his jeans and holding up his hands in a reassuring gesture. Nothing but boy scout earnestness. "We're here to get you out."

Colsworth makes a relieved noise and strains against his bonds, illustrating that they need to come off.

They neither of them have a knife, but Tom pulls out a car key and starts cutting away with it at the tape holding Colsworth's right wrist. Nathan stays at the door, gun in hand, keeping lookout for Mitchell's gang.

"What I don't get," he says, "is why you're here getting shot at when you could be in Switzerland with Elizabeth Hadley."

Tom glances up at him, then back down at his work. Nathan turns his eyes to the room outside. Listens to Tom's voice, to the sawing of his key against the tape.

"I stayed as long as she needed me to. She was in pretty bad shape, but she's strong, she's getting it together again. And we're both still the same people. It was never going to work out, not really. But you knew that long ago. Besides, Switzerland is a bit too nice and neutral, don't you think?"

Nathan doesn't look at him. He's clutching his Glock too hard, the edge of the grip cutting into the palm of his hand.

He can hear the elevator now, a metallic whirr in the distance.

"Come on," he says. "We're about to have company."

"Almost done," Tom says, and a few seconds later there's the snapping of the last stretch of tape, the shuffling as he and Colsworth get to their feet. "Stay behind me," Tom tells the reporter, taking up position behind the doorpost opposite from Nathan.

Colsworth presses himself flat against the wall next to him.

"Who are you guys?" he asks.

"Your paper hired us to find you," Nathan says. "I guess they must like your writing."

"Huh," Colsworth says. "Maybe I should ask for a raise."

"Us?" Tom says. "Does that mean I'll get paid for my efforts?"

He sounds almost hopeful. _Eager_, like he always used to sound. Nathan turns to look at him.

"You gave up everything to save her," he says.

Tom shrugs.

"You gave up everything to save me."

They stand there, facing each other, for a long moment, as the elevator stops and opens at the other end of the building. They're so close they could be touching, but Nathan doesn't reach out. This is Tom, and he's never really needed to.

The air in the warehouse is dry and heavy with dust, heated by the sharp sun on the metal roof above. Right this second, he can't think of any place warmer.


End file.
